


Machine

by thequeergiraffe



Series: Made in Man's Image [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also known as robot sex antics, And a somewhat depressing ending, But hey: sequel!, John's POV, M/M, My version of 'Sherlock is a robot', Or 'robotic boning' if you're feeling classy, Will contain smut in the future, Will have a sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which John is one of two doctors working alongside an almost completely robotic staff at St. Bart's and Sherlock is a highly peculiar android, new to the hospital and not at all what either doctor expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"It'll be nice to have another pair of hands around here," John said to Doctor Stamford over lunch. He poked disinterestedly at his protein paste and frowned. "I only wish we were getting a human rather than another android. Those damned bots can be so tetchy, and with so many people out of work…"

Stamford sniggered. "How many people out there do you suppose have medical training, Watson? Why pay for years of training when you can just upload everything to a chip?" He shook his head, his round chin quivering with unhappy laughter. "Hard to believe getting drawn for military med duty made us lucky, but there we are."

John silently considered the wound on his shoulder, improperly healed by a batch of outdated nanobots, and the ache in his leg that persisted no matter how many times he scanned it with the computer and found nothing that could possibly be causing the pain. And then, of course, he considered his mother and father still living in the city's underground like rats, and his poor sister stuck out on New Atlantis, and he shrugged. "To our luck," he said, lifting a spoonful of paste and grimacing as a glob slid off and splattered messily back to his plate.

x

The android arrived at the end of the week, powered down in its plastic shipping crate. John checked it in methodically, looking it over for signs of damage or shoddy building. It was handsome enough, John thought, although all droids had that unearthly quality to them- something about the skin, perhaps, or the flawlessness of their features.

John gave the thing one last once-over before consulting the clipboard he held in his hands. "Well," he sighed, "at least they sent us a Holmes this time. Remember that dreadful Anderson droid?"

Stamford chuckled. "Awful, that one! And none too pretty for an android, either." He approached the shipping crate and peered inside. "This one's a right supermodel, though, isn't he? Shall I power him up?"

"Go right ahead," John said, still skimming the spec sheet that had arrived with his new bot. Despite himself, John couldn't help but feel a little thrill of excitement when some new toy arrived at the hospital. "Oh," John laughed, looking up at his fellow doctor. "Have a listen to this. Model number SH-39-007. Double-oh-seven! We might have to call this one James. What do you think, Mr. Bond?" he asked the bot, not expecting a reply.

Astonishingly, the machine sat up and blinked at him. "I presume that is a pop culture reference," he said in a crisp baritone. "If you had read my specifications you would be aware that the area of popular culture is outside my programming. Aside from that, I was assigned a name upon creation."

John stared wordlessly at the android for several moments before looking at Stamford and giggling. "By God," he laughed, "they're making these things more and more stroppy by the year." He looked back at the droid and realized, with a jolt, that it was watching him quite intently. Its eyes were…eerily intelligent, John decided. "Right then," he said, as awkwardly as though he'd been mocking another human to their face. "So you've been assigned a name already. Well, out with it then."

All droids blinked. They were programmed to blink at irregular but frequent intervals; otherwise their stares were often considered unnerving. This one, however, seemed to have an issue with its programming. Its stare lingered over John for far too long, unblinking, somehow penetrating (but how? how could it, when the bot knew only what it needed to survive, communicate, and practice medicine?). At long last, it tipped up its chin slightly and said, "I've been given the name 'Sherlock'. If you wish to change my name, you must contact the Holmes Institute of Applied Sciences and issue the change with one of the programmers, who will then remotely reboot my system. All learned behaviors, however, will be erased upon rebooting."

"That won't be necessary," John said, earning an eyebrow raise from Stamford. "What?" he asked the fat man defensively. "I like the name."

The bot, strangely, look surprised. "I think it's a bit rubbish," Stamford shrugged, "but it beats spending four hours on the telecom just so we can call him James Bond."

They both laughed then, but some of John's pleasure was dampened by the intensity of the droid's stare and the humorless set of its mouth.

x

"You don't have to watch me so closely," John said, wrist-deep in the chest cavity of a gently-sleeping old man.

The android moved his gaze from John's face to his hands and back again. "You interest me," he said slowly.

That was unexpected. John cleared his throat and focused twice as hard on what his hands were doing, uncomfortably aware of the machine's ability to scan his vitals. Why  _was_ his pulse elevating, anyway? John wasn't sure, but something about this droid made him nervous. And something about being nervous made him feel alive. "Go be interested in Stamford," John huffed. He didn't miss the small quirk of a smile that tugged at the droid's lips.

x

"What do you think?" Stamford asked that evening. He and John walked out of the building together, looking over their shoulders as all the lights in the facility clicked off.

"What about?"

"About my uncle Bob," the other doctor said sarcastically. "About the droid! What do you think? He's a bit creepy, if you ask me, but damn clever. Those Holmeses know how to make a bloody brilliant robot."

"Mm." John stepped on to one of the public ports and input his coordinates slowly, unthinkingly. What did he think about the droid? He looked back up at the darkened building and shivered. What he thought, ridiculously, was that the thing would probably be lonely during the night. But that was a stupid thought; whoever heard of a robot getting lonely?

John peered up at the windows for a long moment, half-expecting to see the droid looking down at him in one of them, before finally punching in the last number of his home port. Blue light flashed; the hospital disappeared, replaced with John's quiet street. The strange impulse to go back, to let himself into the hospital and sit up all night with that strange new machine, gripped John for a moment and then was quickly brushed away. Instead he went home, to his white-walled bedsit and his illegal firearm, and he thought that maybe it wasn't the bot's loneliness he'd been worried about, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock?"

John walked through the silent hospital corridors slowly, his sneakers squeaky on the freshly-waxed tiles. Other droids passed him by- and simpler robots, too, metal constructs meant for menial labor- but John heeded them not at all. Why should he? The other droids went about their work efficiently but blandly, no light in their artificial eyes or smirks on their artificial lips. That was the way a machine was meant to be, after all.

Wasn't it?

Picking up his pace, John headed for the only place he'd failed to check: the morgue. He pushed through the double doors and called out, again, "Sherlock!"

"I'm here, John," Sherlock said softly, looming over one of the slabs and peering curiously at the dead body it held.

John tried not to even mentally acknowledge the strangeness of the bot's familiarity as he watched the morgue tech- M. O. L. (for Mediocre Old Leftover) or, if they were feeling affectionate, Molly- whir around the room in an apparent fuss. "What're you doing down here, Sherlock?" he asked, leaning against an empty slab and watching the droid's eyes rove over the dead man's face. "You're upsetting Molly, you know."

Sherlock looked up at John and gave him the tiniest of smiles, just a quick lift of one corner of his mouth before it was gone. "It's most peculiar, this human habit of anthropomorphizing even the most basic of machines." He looked back at the body on the slab and touched it gently, running his fingers down the cold, pliant flesh of the man's forehead. "I've updated Molly's systems. To use the preferred pronoun, 'she' should begin to work at maximum efficiency.

"Is that why she's buzzing around like you poured coffee on her hard drive?" John asked, smiling a little.

"A joke." Sherlock looked at John like he was a puzzle. "Your attempts at humor intrigue me."

"All right, Mr. Spock," John said automatically, but before Sherlock could begin rambling about pop culture and his programming again, John asked, "How was last night? Did you…I don't know, sleep at all? Do bots sleep?"

"I have something you might refer to as 'sleep mode', yes," Sherlock said with a frown. "I don't like it, though."

John blinked. "You have likes and dislikes?" That was news to him, but then again he'd never actually conversed with an android before, not like this anyway. "What are some other ones?"

Sherlock walked away from the corpse and began disinfecting his hands. "I like the colour purple," he said carefully, as though each pronouncement was delicate and needed to be treated gently, "but not the colour orange. I like the morgue and the laboratories, but I dislike the children's ward. I like…" He shook his head and turned back towards John, a small frown pulling at his mouth and creasing his brow. "I dislike the other robots. They're imbeciles."

 _That_ made John laugh, though the laughter was short-lived. "Paging Doctor Watson to Ward Six, Corridor Nine, Room Three-Seventeen," called a monotone voice over the loud-system. "Your attention is required immediately for a medical emergency."

"Stamford must not be here yet," John grumbled as the message blared again. He rubbed at his temple and then pointed at Sherlock. "You," he said teasingly, enjoying the look of keen interest on the bot's face, "stay out of trouble."

The message repeated again as he slipped through the morgue's double door, and once more as entered the lift. And then there was only blessed silence.

x

For the first time in a long time, John was actually kept busy. Usually the hospital ran smoothly on its own- a fact that surprised no one, as St. Bart's was the only hospital in London still staffed with human doctors, and even so there were only the two of them- but that morning it seemed that one thing after another had gone awry. First there was the near cardiac arrest, and then there was the failure of the life support systems in Ward Three, and after that John found himself dealing single-handedly (as Stamford, for reasons unknown, had never shown up) with a lunch fiasco the likes of which he'd never before seen.

He was sending away the last meal server (butlers, he and Stamford liked to call them) when Sherlock sidled around a corner and leaned against the wall, watching him with a sort of secret amusement. "What's so funny, then?" John asked, curiosity and trepidation brewing inside him like a storm.

"Your limp," Sherlock smiled, folding his arms as though to say 'I knew it'. "It's been conspicuously absent this morning."

A bit foolishly, John looked at his leg accusingly. "Well," he coughed, "it's…I've…"

Sherlock laughed and clapped his hands together like a gleeful child. "I was right! Psychosomatic. I have your personnel files in my system, of course. You served the Crown; involuntary; time served: six years, three months, eighteen days. Granted medical discharge due to actual injury to the right shoulder. No mention of any mental health issues or psychosis. However, also no mention of any physical trauma resulting in lasting injury to the leg. Hence, psychosomatic limp and undiagnosed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Sherlock smiled, big and genuine. "It's interesting, isn't it? I supposed that if you became inordinately busy you'd forget the limp altogether, and I was right."

For a moment John was stunned into speechlessness…and then the implications of Sherlock's latter words began to bleed through. "You _supposed_ …oh no. Sherlock, tell me you didn't."

The bot immediately stiffened. "I had the entire experiment under control," he said, his lower lip poking out very slightly.

John scrubbed his hand down his face. "Mike, Mike Stamford. What have you done with him?"

"I resent the insinuation of violence," Sherlock sniffed. "All I did was shut off the portal he used last night."

"And the butlers?"

"Toyed with their programming, nothing major. And the life support system would have kicked back on automatically if anyone began to  _truly_ need it. The cardiac arrest, however," Sherlock said quickly, holding up his hands, "was an entirely natural happenstance."

"You can't be serious," John groaned. He'd have to shut the android down, ship him back…the idea made his stomach churn.

But instead of looking remorseful or even merely blank, Sherlock was wearing a proud little smirk. "No one died," he said- no, drawled. "And I fixed that limp of yours, didn't I?"

John couldn't help but smile. "Not by strictly professional means, but yes, I suppose you did." He looked quite seriously at the strange new robot and sighed. "You know what I ought to do, don't you? I ought to write you off as faulty and ship you back."

"But you won't," the bot said, shrugging.

"And why won't I?"

"Because," said Sherlock, a positively devilish smile spreading across his face, "you're not bored anymore, are you?"


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn't bored. He was too busy following Sherlock around the hospital like a puppy-dog, watching all the various improvements the android enacted and cheering delightedly. "My neural passageways are forged in such a way that they fire faster and more accurately than a human's, that's all," Sherlock said haughtily one afternoon. He was lying on his back, his head stuck under the MRI machine and his hands entangled in a mass of wiring. "It's meretricious, what I do. And yet you react each time as though I've performed some exceptional bit of witchcraft."

The bot's hands- pale, long-fingered- were steady and nimble. John watched them move amid the wires with something akin to admiration. "Uh huh," he said, letting his gaze slide from the android's fingers to his wrists, and then up his arms (pushed up sleeves; veins? why veins?) and across his chest. Whoever fitted the poor robot before shipping did a sorry job; the buttons on his shirt seemed nearly ready to burst. "Call it what you like, Sherlock, but I think I'll stick to brilliant." A flush of colour graced the android's slim white throat and John's eyes went wide. He blushed! The android blushed! Could androids blush?

"John?" Sherlock's hands stilled. "You're displaying signs of physical arousal. Is everything all right?"

"I'm not aroused!" John cried indignantly, his face going hot.

Sherlock sighed. "Not  _sexual_  arousal, you idiot, not necessarily anyway. I only meant that I was sensing an increase in heart rate as well as spikes in your levels of adrenaline and testosterone." He resumed working on the machine, though when he spoke again his tone was both amused and fond. "However, your reaction implies both a lack of actual threat and perhaps a touch too much defensiveness…"

"Damn faulty bot," John groused, folding his arms and looking away guiltily.

x

"I think there's something wrong with that Holmes droid," Stamford said one morning through a yawn. He munched on his protein cake for a moment and then added, "I caught him yesterday sticking a jar of eyeballs in the micro. Mason jar; human eyes;  _our_ microwave. Where did he even get all the ruddy eyes, that's what I'd like to know!"

John didn't want to imagine. "He has his experiments," he said dismissively, prodding his own protein cake disgustedly. "Do you remember real food? Before the war?"

Stamford smacked his gut and laughed. "What do you think?"

x

They were on their way out one evening when an odd noise caught John's ears. "Go on ahead," he said to Stamford, turning back to the hospital. "I've…got…" He didn't finish making up an excuse, but simply strode back inside and let the automatic doors click closed behind him.

It was music. That was the noise John was hearing: music. Vibrating through the building via the intercoms. He looked around for a moment, but he thought he already knew the culprit. And when he entered the main office he found he was right, though the sight that greeted him was still surprising.

It was Sherlock, of course, but he wasn't simply queuing up a playlist. He was playing, and playing beautifully. It was such an astounding sight that it took John nearly three minutes to wonder where he got the violin.

"Internet," Sherlock said, stopping abruptly and letting the instrument dangle at his side. He looked at John defiantly, as though he expected some resistance to his newfound hobby.

Instead, John only barely managed to mutter: "Sherlock…that was…" He shook his head, at a complete loss for words. "Amazing," he settled on. "Absolutely amazing."

There it was: the bot blushed again, a hint of pink spanning his cheekbones and his long, lean neck. "It was nothing," he demurred, staring at the violin as though it deserved all the credit. "I'm a machine, John. It's no different than playing a song on a computer."

"You're barking!" John laughed. "Sherlock, there's a world of difference."

Sherlock's eyes were so human in that moment- so full of life and a  _realness_ that simply could not be attributed to a machine- that for one solitary instant John forgot he was looking at an android. Then Sherlock said, "You should go home. The average human adult needs six to eight hours of sleep per night," and the moment passed.

"Good night, Sherlock," John said, a tumult of feelings stirring in his gut.

The android smiled, a hint of sadness in his incredibly odd eyes. "Good night, John."

John walked to his port like one in a dream, music pulsing in his mind, welcome chaos after years of silence.

x

St. Bart's was capable of housing ten thousand patients at a time, and it was often full to capacity. As such, it was impossible for John to even meet each patient personally, much less visit them daily. Still, he liked doing as many rounds as he could. He was doing Ward Eight, Corridor Eleven one chilly autumn day when Sherlock suddenly appeared at his side, whinging about boredom and the lack of broken machinery to fix.

"Call me crazy," John said, consulting the roster on the door to room nine-oh-six, "but I happen to prefer functional machinery to the dysfunctional."

"I have reliable evidence suggesting otherwise," Sherlock quipped, tailing John as he entered the room. "That one's sleeping," he said, pointing to the patient in the first bed. "Let's leave it alone."

"Pronouns, Sherlock," John sighed, moving along to the second bed. He rustled the privacy curtain and called, "Hello? Mrs…" He consulted his notes. "Hudson? Are you decent?"

"As much as I'll ever be," the older woman called back, sounding cheerful. John slid back the curtain to reveal a very frail, very kindly-looking woman, who looked at John and then at Sherlock and smiled. "Well, isn't this nice? I get to meet the doctors! Now, which is which? I'd be willing to bet you're Watson," she said, guessing correctly, "which makes you Stamford."

"No, this is…" John trailed off. The look on Sherlock's face was one John had never seen before, and suddenly he knew why: it was the first time anyone had assumed Sherlock was human. "This is our newest doctor, actually," John said, shocked at himself the moment he said it. What was he doing? "Doctor…erm, Holmes. Yes, Doctor Holmes. I'm showing him around the hospital today."

Sherlock stared at John wonderingly, and then looked at Mrs. Hudson and smiled. "Yes, I'm new," he said, sounding chipper. "But I'm eager to begin my new duties."

"Oh, you young ones always are," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Never mind what's important; stick to your duties. Hmph! I'll tell you what you ought to do, Doctor Holmes. You ought to take this handsome Doctor Watson out after work for some drinkies, and then march him straight back to your flat and-"

"Right," John said quickly, his throat going about dry. "Well, we've only just popped in to see how you're doing. So…how are you?"

"Oh, well enough, I suppose. Gets a bit lonely though, doesn't it? Doesn't help that I'm rooming with the sleepiest woman in the galaxy." Mrs. Hudson, bless her poor forlorn soul, rambled on for over half an hour about anything and everything, but especially about what a handsome pair John and Sherlock were. John was flushing all over by the time they managed to escape nine-oh-six, but Sherlock was strangely quiet.

"All right?" John asked, looking over at his android friend worriedly.

Sherlock's eyes were distant, his gait slow. "She's dying," he said softly. "How terrifying that must be, to realize the inevitability of death and to be powerless against it."

For a moment, John wasn't at all sure what to say. But then he simply shrugged and said, "Sure, it is terrifying. But it's sort of wonderful, too. Because it gives us meaning, doesn't it? When you know your time is limited, you try to use it in the best way you can."

Quietly, solemnly, Sherlock considered John's words. Then he smiled, slow and sneaky. "Mrs. Hudson seemed to think the best use of  _our_  time involves 'drinkies' and…oh, dear me, what else was she implying, John? I had hoped you might explain."

"Mrs. Hudson," John said, blushing all the way to the tips of his ears, "is an absolute kook."


	4. Chapter 4

The sleeping man snored, shifted. His shirt was rucked up around his belly, revealing a small and neat incision mark. John looked at the scar, then at the notes in his hand, then back again. The man's surgery was scheduled for that afternoon; John had come to see why he wasn't in the OR, prepped and ready to go. This was the apparent explanation: the surgery had already been performed.

Frowning, John looked the patient's notes over once again. High-risk surgery; scheduled that day. And yet…

He flipped to the end and paused, his mouth going slightly slack. Surgery notes. Meticulous surgery notes, in a startlingly neat hand. And at the end, with a touch of flourish, was a signature.

 _Dr Sherlock Holmes_ , it read.

Aha. John cleared his throat and tucked the notes away. "Doctor Holmes," he said to himself as he walked out of the room and down the corridor. "I've created a monster."

x

Sherlock was in the laboratory, measuring out various multi-coloured fluids with a pipette and looking very solemn. John leaned against the door-frame and folded his arms, watching silently for a moment.

The android's hands froze. "You're angry," he said, resuming his work, his face as devoid of feeling as his voice.

"A little," John admitted. "How many of our surgeries have you done so far?"

 _Drip, drip_ , went a few orange droplets from a pipette to a petri dish. Sherlock didn't look up. "Twenty-six," he said, and then added, "but I didn't do any of Stamford's."

That was…confusing. "Why not?"

"Because," Sherlock said, sighing despite the fact that he didn't have lungs, "it was meant as a gift. I thought…I thought it would please you. I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered?" Now  _that_ really made no sense. John scrunched his nose. "But why-"

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock spat, pushing all of his work into the bin with one sweep of his arm. He slid off the stool and stormed past John, brushing him out of the way and stomping down the hall so quickly that his lab coat began to billow around him.

John watched the coat disappear around the corner, his eyebrows raised.

x

Three days passed until John saw Sherlock again. It was strange, but John found himself actually missing the droid's company. Stamford was okay, sure, but he was…well, he was  _Stamford_ : set in his routines, content with the droll life he and John had been granted, perpetually jovial but frustratingly simple. The other droids were dutiful but dull, the minor bots had no personalities whatsoever, and the other humans that lived in John's building didn't even know the man existed. His life was empty…and somehow, in the short time he'd been at Bart's, Sherlock had managed to fill it up.

John was musing on this, and on the awful barren banality of his bed-sit, when Sherlock sidled up beside him, his hands clasped behind his back and a slightly repentant cast to his features.

"Oh," John said, stopping to look at him, "and where have you been?"

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling tiles as though he needed to consider. "About," he said, and then, smiling a little, "I spent a great deal of time with Mrs. Hudson. She still thinks I'm human." John grinned, but before he could reply Sherlock held up his hand and looked John over, frowning. "You're leaving," he said accusingly. "It's seven o'clock."

"True and true," John said, sounding happier about it then he felt.

The robot's frown deepened. "Don't," he said quietly.

John fought back a smile and said, "I have to go home, Sherlock. Some of us actually  _need_ sleep."

"You could sleep here," Sherlock suggested. "This hospital contains 9,972 usable beds, forty-seven of which are currently vacant."

"I…" John shook his head. "What's going on with you, Sherlock? Are you…I don't know, frightened? Is there something bothering you?"

Sherlock pulled a face. "Never mind," he grumbled, crossing his arms. "Good night, John."

"Hey." John tugged Sherlock's arms free and pulled the robot into a hug, chuckling at the way he tensed and then relaxed. "You're all right, see? If you really, really need me to stay, I'll stay. I just wish you would tell me what's going on, that's all." The android's body was surprisingly warm and more life-like than John had expected; it felt as though he were holding an actual fleshy human being in his arms.

Pulling himself away and straightening his jacket, Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. It shouldn't have surprised John (and yet it did) to see that his face was all pink. "I'm fine," he said stuffily. "Fear and sentiment are ordinary human emotions. I'm beyond them, of course."

"Of course," John agreed, his tone suggesting exactly the opposite. He yawned and patted Sherlock's arm. "G'night, Sherlock."

The android nodded once and watched John leave, the lights clicking off and the patients slipping into simultaneous, drug-induced slumber as the door closed and locked automatically. John could feel him watching as he walked to the port, but when he turned back to look at the hospital's darkened windows, Sherlock was gone.

x

"It's snowing!" John looked excitedly at Sherlock and then back out the window, watching the thick flakes fall slowly, blanketing the hospital grounds in wonderful white. "Sherlock, look!"

Sherlock glanced up from the computer screen (where he was toying with a 3-D manip of a pair of ruined lungs) and frowned. "Frozen precipitation," he yawned. "Yes, how thrilling."

Rolling his eyes, John trod over and grabbed Sherlock's hand, yanking him to the window. "Just  _look_ at it," he said, and then, "Sherlock?"

The droid was staring at John's hand wrapped around his, a strange look on his face.

"Oh," John mumbled, immediately letting go, "sorry. Was that-"

"Fine. It was fine." Sherlock swallowed (and why? did he even produce saliva, or was it a learned habit?) and took John's hand again, turning it over and running his thumb down the creases in his palm. "Your hands are strange," he said musingly. "Dewy."

"Dewy?" John laughed, but he sort of understood what Sherlock meant. The bot's 'skin' was drier than his own and poreless. It was also, John noted with surprise, incredibly soft.

Sherlock nodded seriously. "Dewy. And rough. If I'd never met you before or accessed your files, I'd need only look at your hands to know your whole history." He ran his thumb across a callus and said, "Soldier." Touched his fingertips to John's and said, "Doctor."

"I'm more than that," John said softly. "I was a brother, a long time ago. A son." He cleared his throat and pulled his hand away, clasping both of them behind his back and looking out the window at the gently drifting snow. "What about you, Sherlock? What do your hands say?"

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was looking at his own palms with the saddest expression John had ever seen on the bot's face. "I don't think they say anything at all," he whispered, his strange grey eyes stormy.

The snowfall slowed slightly, though the sky stayed white and low. "Let's go outside," John said after a moment, on a whim.

Sherlock looked up from his hands curiously. "Why would we do that?"

"Because," John grinned, "I can't throw snowballs at myself. Come on." He took Sherlock's hand again and squeezed it, and the android's mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

Stamford brought John a cup of the sludge they begrudgingly referred to as coffee and settled down at the table across from him with a sigh. "Your robot," he said, and John immediately knew to which robot he was referring, "called me John this morning."

John glanced up from his medical journal, gave the facial equivalent of a shrug, and looked back down again.

"He does that," Stamford went on, sounding amused. "In fact, I'd say he calls me John about 95% of the time." He stretched, sighed. "He calls the other droids John, sometimes, and the minor bots. One time I went into the laboratory and he was in there, chattering away to himself at light-speed. When I questioned him he said that he'd been talking to you, that you were right there just a moment ago."

"He does that," John conceded, taking a sip of his horrid drink and grimacing.

Stamford watched John for a moment before raising his coffee mug to his lips. He paused and said, slowly, "If he were human, I'd guess he fancied you," before taking a long draught.

It was a lucky thing that John had given his own coffee up as a miss or he might have choked.

x

"I have fifteen times more sense receptors in one square inch of my skin than you do," Sherlock said quite randomly one quiet morning. He and John were lazing about in Ward Eight's lounge, watching a repeat telecast from the Crown. Both men were clad in loose-fitting scrubs; Sherlock's bare feet were in John's lap, one hand behind his head and the other dangling, his knuckles brushing the pristinely cleaned tiles.

John looked at Sherlock interestedly. "Is that so?" He glanced at his smooth, pale feet and then back to his face again, fighting back a grin. "Bet that makes you awful ticklish."

"Don't you dare!" Sherlock cried, tugging his feet away. John dove after him and the two began to tussle, rolling from the plush couch to the floor, John wiggling his fingertips menacingly and giggling too much to work up a feasible attack and Sherlock squirming and shoving and trying very hard not to laugh.

Eventually, using his military knowledge and the fact that Sherlock's ribs were a particularly vulnerable target, John managed to get Sherlock pinned beneath him. He leaned over him, panting, and shouted triumphantly: "Let's see you wriggle your way out now!"

The droid-  _and he is a droid_ , John reminded himself- glared up at John. It was so strange, the way his skin was flushed from activity, his breathing as heavy as it would have been if he actually needed to breathe. So strange, and so lovely.

Lovely? Where did that come from?

Sherlock chose that instant to flip John on to his back and come down on top of him, hard. He was heavier than he looked (and he would be, considering his skeleton was metal rather than bone) and stronger, too. John only needed to twist a little to realize he was hopelessly trapped. "Promise you won't tickle me again," Sherlock panted, his dark curls hanging in his face and his eyes bright, "or I won't let you up."

"I promise," John intoned, trying to look to serious.

Sherlock made a face. "Promise  _what_?"

Damn. John laughed and shook his head. "Fine, I promise I won't tickle you again."

"All right." Sherlock considered for a moment, probably trying to find any loopholes he might have missed, before relenting. He stood and helped John to his feet, looking pleased with himself.

"You're a worthy adversary," John sighed, brushing unnecessarily at his scrubs. "But there's one thing you missed."

Sherlock's brow quirked. "Oh?"

"Yep." John held up his hands and grinned. "I had my fingers crossed."

x

The sun had yet to rise. John sat in his personal office, the dim desk light glowing over his morning notes. He read the list of the previous night's dead first, as he always did. The names were mostly unfamiliar…but when he got to the H's, he stopped and put his hand to his mouth, his eyes going wide and sad.

 _Hudson, Martha_ , the list said.  _Patient #8-11-906-2._

"Oh, no," he whispered to himself, running his finger across the name. He stared at the letters until they went unfocused, and then he stood and went in search of Sherlock.

x

It didn't surprise John to find Sherlock lying on a slab in the morgue, hands on his chest and eyes distant. It didn't surprise him that Sherlock didn't greet him, either, or that the only acknowledgment of John's presence or sign of Sherlock's continued consciousness was a quick, cold sideways glance as he entered the room. It didn't surprise him, and it didn't matter. Sherlock needed him now, whether he wanted him or not.

"I'm sorry," John said quietly, sitting lightly on the edge of the slab. He put his hand on Sherlock's knee and gave it a little pat. "I know you cared about her."

Sherlock swallowed, tipped his head. If he'd been human, John would've expected a tear to slide down his cheek. But the android's face remained perfectly dry. "I'm not capable of caring," he said to the ceiling. "I'm not programmed for it."

John shook his head. "That isn't true."

"Yes, it is." Sherlock's throat worked and his eyes fell closed. "I feel nothing. After all, what are emotions but a chemical stew saturating the body and causing irrational behaviors? I am perfectly rational. I am a machine. I feel nothing."

"You can say it a million times, if you like, but that won't make this hurt any less."

Sherlock sat up and fixed John with a scathing look. "You protest as though you don't believe exactly the same thing."

"You know I don't," John said, bewildered. "We're friends, Sherlock. Could I call you my friend if I thought you were just some unfeeling, inhuman machine?" He leaned forward and touched the vein in Sherlock's wrist. "I don't care if it's blood or coolant pumping through you, Sherlock, you're the most human man I've ever known."

Pulling his arm free, Sherlock bit his lip and rubbed at the spot John had touched, as if an echo of his touch still remained. "Your words and your actions don't match," Sherlock said, still rubbing at his wrist. "You don't think I'm capable of love. It's obvious."

"Love?" John looked Sherlock's face over, looking for some hint as to the direction of this conversation. "Sherlock, I…" Did he think the android was capable of love? Such a complex emotion should surely be relegated strictly to humanity, shouldn't it? And yet, when Sherlock met his eyes, a spark lit inside him so strongly that he was almost breathless from it.

Sherlock loved him.

It had been staring him in the face for months but he'd been blind to it, sheltered by prejudice and ignorance. There was no denying it now, however. Sherlock loved him…and something inside of him, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, felt that love and responded to it in kind. "I think you're capable," John whispered, his heart pounding. "I know you are."

Searching his gaze, Sherlock leaned forward slightly and murmured, "Then prove it."

So John did: he leaned in the rest of the way and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, a whisper of a kiss that sent a rush of fire through his veins. "All right?" John asked softly, his lips still so close to Sherlock's that they almost brushed when he spoke.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes." And he kissed John again, more firmly this time, his hand coming up to cup John's cheek.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woo-woo! All aboard the Robo-Smut Express! Turns out having sex with a robot is super awkward. Who knew?

Sherlock's lips were soft, incredibly so, and his mouth wasn't at all the dry plastic oddity that John had expected. It felt, remarkably, like kissing a human.

"The tongue is exceptionally important to human speech," Sherlock breathed, his forehead pressed to John's, "and the tongue works best when coated with a thin layer of saliva. The vast majority of my processes mimic those of humans…although, mine are usually infinitely superior."

John chuckled and pressed a small kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Thanks for the tid-bit, but I think this is already weird enough without the random android trivia, don't you?" Sherlock tensed, and John backpedaled. "Not because- I mean- we're in a morgue!" He waved his hands around empathetically. "I'm snogging a man in a morgue. That is decidedly strange. Good, but strange."

Relaxing a bit, Sherlock allowed himself a small half-smile. "Mrs. Hudson would have been pleased," he said, running his hands lightly up and down John's chest. "She suspected we were lovers already, though she voiced the opinion that if we  _weren't_ , we should have been."

"Is that right?" John took Sherlock's chin in his hand and pulled him in for another kiss, this one long and languorous. He could feel the rest of his body beginning to react, the warm rush of arousal spreading through his belly. Not quite wanting to, he pulled himself away before things got out of hand. "So," he asked, a bit breathless, "now what?"

"Sex," Sherlock shrugged, and John spluttered. "What? Isn't that what people normally do? Confess mutual attraction; initiate intimacy; copulate." He ticked the steps off on his long white fingers, his brow furrowed.

John laughed and dragged his hand down his face. "It's not as simple as all that, usually."

"With us it is," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I know it is. While we were kissing, I took your pulse. I scanned the chemical composition of your brain. I see no point in playing coy or prolonging the inevitable."

"Well." There really wasn't any arguing with that sort of logic…except- "Sherlock, we're in a  _morgue_."

"Oh, do shut up," Sherlock drawled, pulling John towards him and kissing him again. It was good, warm and soft, and Sherlock's fingers clutching at his chest made him shiver. He shifted- a bit awkwardly, as he wasn't as young as he used to be- so that his legs were underneath him and he was kneeling on the slab. The metal was cold against his shins, but he barely noticed. He ran his hand up Sherlock's thigh, enjoying the way it made him gasp against his mouth.

And then another thought struck. "Wait," he said, his voice gruff.

"You're going to ask if I'm physically equipped for intercourse," Sherlock said quickly, his face pink and his lower lip glistening.

Christ, he was straightforward. "I was going to ask it a little more delicately than that," John insisted, looking a bit put out.

"No need," Sherlock said, pulling John towards him and kissing a line down his throat. "The answer is yes."

"Good. I mean-" John cleared his throat. "Not 'good' as in-"

Sherlock huffed out a breath and sat back. "We're supposed to be having sex, not chatting away like a couple of old women," he griped, pushing John back against the slab and looming over him. "Now, be quiet."

Surreal; the whole thing was surreal. If John had ever considered what this moment would be like (and he might have, maybe, contemplated it a few times while on the very edge of sleep), he had supposed Sherlock would be all blushing and virginal, hesitant, trembling.  _How_ he'd ever thought such a thing, considering the droid's personality, he really couldn't remember now that Sherlock was on top of him, kissing him hungrily and wriggling his way between John's parted legs.

And, oh- Sherlock  _was_ equipped, it seemed; very much so. That brought a whole new rush of nervousness and anticipation, because for all that John was very open to new things, he'd never been with a man before and certainly not with an android, and-

"John?" Sherlock rose up on his arms, looking down at John and scanning his face. "You're having second thoughts."

John met Sherlock's eyes and shook his head. "Never."

For a moment the two were quiet, the air between them tense in a way it had never been before…and then Sherlock lowered his head and kissed John tenderly, sliding one hand down John's chest and then slipping it up his shirt, his fingers tracing the (very faint, John mentally admitted) lines of his abdomen. That was better; it didn't feel so hurried or frantic. The slab was cold against his back and Sherlock was heavy on top of him, but the slow motion of their bodies (when had that begun?) distracted him from the discomfort and Sherlock's teeth grazing his throat made him groan and arch his back involuntarily.

"I want to touch you," Sherlock said softly, sliding his hand lower until his fingers were just under the waistband of John's scrubs. He hesitated there before asking, very politely, "May I?"

John chuckled and nodded. "Yes," he said, smiling, and then as Sherlock's hand began to slowly move, brushing the fine hairs above his shaft, the smile fell away and he groaned, "God, yes."

That was… _nice_ wasn't quite the right word for it, but it was all John's muzzy brain could come up with at the moment. He hadn't been touched like that it in, oh, years- not since before the war. And Sherlock was so  _good_ , every stroke perfectly calculated for maximum efficiency, or so John imagined. He thrust into them a little, his face buried in Sherlock's warm neck and his hands gripping at Sherlock's hips (and how wonderful it was, he thought, that the metal felt so much like bone). It was good, so good…

"Wait, wait," he gasped, pushing at Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock groaned unhappily, but his hand stilled. "Pleeeeease," he begged, though the plea sounded more like a demand. He dropped his head so that his forehead was on John's chest, his back hunched, and growled. "Can we just-"

"I'm not- it's- here," John panted, fumbling with the zipper on Sherlock's trousers. "You can- so we can both-" Articulation was not his strong suit at the moment, but Sherlock quickly got the idea.

"Oh," he whispered, and then, "right, yes." He pushed John's hands away and kissed him as he drew himself out and took them both in one hand. He resumed stroking again and this time it was…less good. Too dry. Not enough friction.

"Sherlock," he grunted, fidgeting beneath him. "Can you…" He gritted his teeth. "Can you spit on your hand or something?"

Making a noise that sounded suspiciously like "ugh", Sherlock sat up and put his hands on his thighs, a cross expression tugging at his flawless features. He looked a bit wild, his hair a mess and his cheeks pink, shirt half un-buttoned and a frankly impressive erection poking from his trousers. John couldn't help it; he laughed. He laughed and laughed until his eyes burned, and then he kept laughing. To his surprise and delight, Sherlock began laughing too, deep throaty chuckles that made John's stomach tingle.

Sherlock slumped over and laid his head on John's chest, heaving a sigh. "This isn't working at all, is it?"

"'Fraid not," John said, rubbing Sherlock's back. "But it's only a matter of preparation. Next time will be better."

"Next time?" Sherlock asked, sitting up a little and looking at John with surprise.

John flushed. "I mean- if you want-"

"Yes," Sherlock said quickly, and then perhaps realizing how eager he sounded, "If you're so inclined, I mean, that would be perfectly acceptable."

At that exact moment the double-doors burst open and M.O.L. whirred in, beeping and whistling in protestation of the misuse of her workspace. John and Sherlock stared at her for a moment, each of them wide-eyed, before hurriedly jumping up and making themselves presentable, laughing all the while.


	7. Chapter 7

The next time  _was_  better. John had acquisitioned some of the jelly they used for giving ultrasounds and a spare cot, which he tucked away into his office cupboard. They waited until after Stamford had left (John claiming he needed to conduct some overnight observations) and resumed their previous position almost as soon as he was gone, with the only difference being that John was on top this time, his hand over Sherlock's so that he could guide him when needed. And  _God_ , was it good. It didn't take long at all- not with Sherlock writhing beneath him and biting at his own lip like that- for John to shoot a neat little spatter of white across Sherlock's belly and both of their hands.

When he had caught his breath, however, he looked at the mess he'd made and frowned. "You didn't…" He swallowed and looked up at Sherlock awkwardly. "Do you need me to, I don't know…" Try as he might, John couldn't finish that sentence.

Sherlock chuckled. "I  _did_ , actually, several times." He raised an eyebrow as he shifted up on to his elbows, his hair sticking up all over. "I don't produce semen, naturally. What would be the point?"

Huh. John stood and went to the adjoining bathroom so that he could wash his hands, leaving the door open. "I didn't think of that," he said, turning the knob with his wrist.

He practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. "Let it never be said," he said with a touch of imperiousness, "that it's your mental capacity which inspires such fondness in me."

John's hands stilled under the running water. He looked up at his own reflection to find he was wearing the silliest grin he'd ever seen. "I'm rather fond of you, too, Sherlock," he said, resuming his hand-washing. Sherlock's embarrassed scoff from the other room was all the reply he needed.

x

The time after that was excellent, and the time after that was positively brilliant. "We're getting pretty good at this," John panted one late winter night. The wind outside was howling fiercely, gusting at the building with all its strength.

Sherlock, it seemed, was spent. He was lying back against the cot, his eyes closed and his arms folded under his head. "Mmm."

John leaned over Sherlock and wiped his hand on the towel they'd laid beside the cot (a bit of Sherlock's ingenuity, that) before they started. Then he settled back, snuggling up against Sherlock's side and dropping a kiss on his shoulder. He was quiet for a moment, drifting in and out of sleep, when an idea popped into his mind. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Want to try something new?"

Sherlock cracked one eye and considered John's face for a moment before smiling his little half-smile. "All right," he said, closing his eye again and yawning. "But you'll need to wait, say, thirty-five minutes?" Then, his tone teasing, "Humans and their refractory periods."

x

"What're you grinning about?"

John blinked. He was sitting at his and Stamford's shared table, stirring his lunch- protein chunks in a lovely protein sauce, today- around absently and thinking about the night before, about Sherlock's hips in his hands and his tight warmth and the beautiful, throaty moans that had escaped him with each thrust-

"Watson, hoo-hoo!" Stamford waved his hand in front of John's face. "All right then, mate?" He looked at John with amused concern for a moment before arching his eyebrows and making his mouth into a perfectly-shaped O. "I know what it is," he said slowly, his eyes lighting up. "Watson, you dog!"

_Oh God oh God oh God_ , John thought, though he kept his face as mild as he could and said, around a mouthful of flavourless goop, "Oh?"

Stamford grinned and leaned back in his seat. "You've met a girl, have you? Well, out with it! I want details, man!"

For a moment John was frozen, his spoon dropping back into his food and his eyes going wide. Stamford didn't know? How was that possible? And should he tell him? He deliberated for a second…and then grinned in kind and tapped the side of his nose with his finger. "A gentleman never tells," he said, scooping up his spoon again.

x

The weather was beginning to warm up, a touch of spring tearing through the bitterness of winter. John woke up early one morning to the call of birds outside the window and a sudden chill that meant he was alone in his hospital cot. He sat up slowly, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes, and yawned. "Sherlock?"

"What's it like?" Sherlock asked quietly. He was sitting in the windowsill, dressed in scrubs, his knees tucked up against his chest.

"What do you mean?" John's mouth was stale; he stretched and stood, his mind more focused on taking a piss and brushing his teeth than on Sherlock's blank expression and darkened eyes.

"Out there." Sherlock's jaw tightened, relaxed. "The city. What's it like?"

John stopped and turned, looking at Sherlock properly. His body language was all wrong, too tense and frigid. "It's…" He took a step forward and paused again. "Different."

Sherlock nodded and then, quick as a cat, climbed down from the windowsill and marched to the door, barefoot and preposterously long-limbed. "I don't feel like talking today," he said, opening the door. He pulled it roughly shut behind him.

x

"Come home with me tonight," John murmured, holding Sherlock around the waist, his chest pressed against Sherlock's back. He was so much shorter than Sherlock; he had to stand on his tip-toes to press a kiss against the nape of his neck. "I don't care if we get caught."

"We won't get caught," Sherlock said, running his hands over John's. "John, are you sure?"

John nodded against his back. "You can't live your whole life in this hospital, Sherlock. It isn't right."

Sherlock turned in his arms and kissed John's forehead lightly. "I'm so bored, John," he whispered. "And when you're not here…it feels like the boredom is eating me up from the inside. I think it's beginning to drive me mad."

"We'll have to find you another hobby," John said, masking his concern with cheerfulness. How had he never considered what being cooped in this place was doing to Sherlock? Maybe because his life outside of Bart's was so empty, he took his freedom for granted. "We'll find you something to do," he promised…though his mind boggled at the idea of find anything that would occupy Sherlock's attention for longer than a few months. "We'll think of something."

x

They left the hospital hurriedly, Sherlock clutching John's hand so tightly he thought the bones in it would disintegrate. Passing through the port made Sherlock gasp with delight; walking down the street filled him with wide-eyed interest.

"Jesus," John said, smiling a little, "you're like a little kid."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said, running his hand down a lamp-post as they passed.

"What is?"

"My age." Sherlock looked at John, his grey eyes bright. "In actuality, I don't have one. I was never 'born'. My production began, technically, forty years ago. But I wasn't specifically assembled until three years ago, and my processor- brain, to put it in more understandable terms- was only assigned last year."

"So, you're like a one-year-old?" John blanched.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Irrelevant," he said again. "My physical age makes absolutely no difference, as I was put into the body of a fully formed adult male upon my creation."

"And your mental age?"

"All of recorded history dwells right here," Sherlock said smugly, tapping his own forehead, "and I can draw any bit of it up instantaneously and at will. You might well say my mental age exceeds a million years."

"This is going to take some getting used to," John said, rubbing his hand down his face. He unlocked his door and led Sherlock up, hesitating only momentarily before swinging open the door of his bed-sit and waving Sherlock inside. "It's horrid, I know," John apologized, pulling the door closed, "but it's cheap, and- oomf!" His back made sudden contact with the door as Sherlock pressed him against it, his hands wound in John's shirt and his eyes hungry.

"Stop talking," he said, kissing John roughly.

John, unsurprisingly, made no argument.


	8. Chapter 8

The weather was fantastic on the morning John arrived to work (having gone out for drinks the evening before with Stamford) to find Mycroft Holmes waiting for him in his office. John had practically skipped to work, taking deep gulps of the fresh spring air into his lungs and grinning.

His office, by comparison, was positively frosty. Something about the founder of the Holmes Institute, in his three-piece suit and expensive shoes, lent a chill to the air that even spring, in all her splendor, couldn't ward away. "Ah, Doctor Watson," he said as John entered the office, a little smile stretching his lips but not coming anywhere close to his grey, glittering eyes. "It's a pleasure."

John raised an eyebrow. "You're…"

"Mycroft Holmes," the man nodded. His hair was meticulously neat, as though it had been very recently combed by a robot (and, considering who he was, it probably had). "I apologize for arriving unannounced. However, I assure you I bring only fortuitous news."

"Oh?" John slid behind his desk and settled into his chair. He didn't like this man, and he didn't like the way he loomed near the window instead of politely sitting down. "What sort of news?"

Mr. Holmes threw John another fake smile. "I've brought you a new toy." To John's perplexed expression, he laughed (ah-ha-ha, each syllable clearly pronounced) and added, "A robot. Top of the line. Free of charge."

Whatever Mr. Holmes had expected John to say, it was clear he hadn't expected John's frown, nor his confused, "All right…but  _why_?"

"Most men in your position would be overjoyed, Doctor," Mr. Holmes said, all traces of humor gone from his face. "This new robot is considerably more advanced than anything your hospital could normally afford." He frowned at John for a long moment before sighing and examining his fingernails. "Recompense," he drawled, looking irritated.

"Recompense for what?" John asked, a sick feeling beginning to grow in his stomach.

Mr. Holmes made a face. "You're terribly talkative, aren't you? Very well, have the whole story if it'll put your mind at ease. My factory in Edinburgh made a horrifying mistake some time ago and sent you a piece of robotics that was very… _important_ to me. I spent a great deal of time designing this particular robot, Doctor Watson, and created it at immense personal expense. It took me the better part of a year to sort out the mix-up, but now I have and here I am. You have my robot, Doctor. And I'd like him back."

John's heart thrummed wildly. "The model number of this particular robot?"

Sighing again, Mr. Holmes looked John over and said, carefully, "SH-39-007."

"No," John said at once, sitting upright.

Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow. "No? Whatever do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean, you can't have him back," John said, his voice a thousand times more even and calm than he felt. "Our hospital paid for that droid, we've…we've trained him to our specifications. He's ours now. You can't have him back."

"You're…good lord, you're being serious," Mr. Holmes said, and then he laughed and looked out the window, still smiling. "My dear doctor, don't be foolish."

"I'm sorry for any financial loss you've garnered from this deal, but the robot stays. He belongs at Bart's." John stood and assumed his most military pose. "So, if that's all-"

"Of course that's not all," Mr. Holmes snapped. He sneered at John before pacing over and leaning against the desk with both palms. "Doctor Watson, don't be an idiot. If you're unwilling to release that robot to me, I'm sure the directors of this hospital will happily employ a doctor who will."

John crossed his arms. "Is that a threat?"

"Oh no," Mr. Holmes laughed, "certainly not. It's an offer. An opportunity." The look on his face was terrible. "Consider, for a moment, the sort of connections a man of my wealth and prestige must have. Have you ever seen New Atlantis, Doctor Watson? Ah, I see; a friend? Family member? Yes, a close one. How soon would you like to be reunited? Because, and I can't make this clear enough, that is exactly where men who stand in my way tend to find themselves. I'll have that android, Doctor Watson, either way. So no, I'm not threatening you. I'm merely giving you the choice: you can either retain your relatively cushy position here at St. Bart's, or you can spend the rest of your life on that filthy titan of a ship. It makes absolutely no difference whatsoever to me."

The reality of Mr. Holmes' speech sunk in and John slumped back into his seat, his eyes unfocused. There was nothing he could do, nothing _anyone_ could do…except-

John began to laugh, softly at first, then so boisterously that tears sprung to his eyes.

Mr. Holmes regarded him coldly. "I appear to have missed the joke."

"Go ahead," John chuckled, waving the genius inventor towards the door. "Go, seriously. Try and take him." He leaned forward and smiled at Holmes, big and genuine. "You designed that robot, so you know he's damned clever. And he won't want to leave, I can tell you that. So go ahead, and good luck to you. Because I can guarantee you'll never catch him."

"Ah," Mr. Holmes said softly, appearing to consider. Then he smiled. "Yes, that would be a problem…if I weren't capable of powering him down remotely. Which I did, oh, as soon as I arrived. Between that and the GPS device that comes standard with all Holmes bots, I think I  _might_ just have the task firmly in hand."

"He'll come back." John stood, nervous energy flowing through him and making him unable to sit still. "As soon as you power him up, he'll find a way to escape and he'll come right back here again."

"System reboot. Wipes the memory." Holmes glanced at his watch. "Anything else?"

John's hands were clenching of their own accord. "I know he'll have thought of something. He must have known this would happen, surely he'd have a plan-"

"My dear doctor, you're relying upon the robot's cleverness to 'save' him without recalling that  _I_ designed the thing!" Mr. Holmes frowned deeply. "I know precisely what the android is capable of, Doctor Watson, because I created him. Of course he's clever; he's one of mine, isn't he? But please, don't make the mistaking of presuming I am any less capable. Man has yet to make a machine smarter than himself, Doctor, whatever the telecasts might say."

"Please." It had come to this; John licked his lips and stepped around the desk, his throat tight and his eyes burning. "Please…you could design a new one. Build a new one. You have the means, I'm sure of it. Just…just don't take him. Please."

Mr. Holmes looked disturbed by John's emotional outburst. He took a step backwards and grimaced. "Very well," he said, his nose crinkled, "if it'll stop you from crying on me, I'll consider it. Allow me a moment to speak to some associates." He tapped something into his watch and slipped out of the room, leaving behind the smell of his after-shave and a chill in the air that wouldn't leave.

Letting out a shaky breath, John went to the window and pressed his forehead to the cool glass. His eyes were stinging and he brushed at them, not wanting that awful Holmes to come back and catch him blubbering like a child. But Sherlock…if they took Sherlock…

He closed his eyes and willed the tears away. It wouldn't do any good to get so emotional; if he was going to be any use to Sherlock, he'd have to keep a clear head. He opened his eyes slowly, looking absently out at the grounds-

-and saw two enormous metal drones hauling Sherlock (his head lolling and his feet dragging) through the grass by his arms, Mycroft Holmes hurrying along after them and speaking angrily into his watch.

"No!" John pressed his palm to the window for half a second before turning and running through the hospital. It seemed as though those antiseptic corridors had grown ten-fold since John's arrival. He ran and ran and ran until his lungs burned, and still he was too late. By the time he burst through the hospital's main doors, the grounds were empty.

Sherlock was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was actually going to end the fic right here because I'm a terrible person. But I didn't, so yay! Enjoy your bonus chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

The new droid was pretty, with milk-and-coffee skin and tight, springy curls. John consulted her papers and discovered she wasn't even a true Holmes android but rather the creation of one of the Holmes subsidiaries, the Donovan Corporation. Still, she was a proper, through-and-through medibot, designed specifically for use in big hospitals with minimal human staffing. He searched her face for a long, quiet moment before bending down and pressing his thumb to the spot just beneath her ear and holding it there.

After a few moments her eyes slid slowly open. But they were dark eyes, dim and distant, and John left the room before she'd even finished powering up.

x

John's building was silent. He sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, and felt the silence echoing inside of him. He felt empty, hollow. A million ideas ran through his head- some dangerous, some terrible- but his eyes remained perfectly dry.

When the silence became unbearable he stood, changed into his streets clothes, and switched on his telecast. He hit record, swallowed.

"Firstly, I want to apologize," he said, not quite looking at the camera. "St. Bart's is huge, I know, and you're going to be running it alone now…but I can't come back. I just…I can't. They'll send you someone new soon, anyway, and who knows? Maybe it'll be a pretty girl or something. I…"

He cleared his throat. "Secondly, I'd like to tell you not to worry, and ask you not to report me missing. I know what I'm doing, and I know the risks involved. Just…I have to do this. I have to try. So please…please just accept that, and let me go. You're not blind, Stamford. Sherlock and I might have fancied that you didn't know about us, but I think you knew enough to understand that I can't…I can't just let this  _happen_. I have to try.

"And third, I'd like to thank you." John looked straight into the camera, his throat rough from held back tears. "You've been a friend. Hell, you were my only friend for a long time, and…well, thank you, Stamford. Mike. It's been a pleasure. I hope I see you again." He swallowed hard, blinked, looked away. "Well, that's it. Good luck, mate. And good bye." He clicked the camera off and held his finger over the send button for a long, long time before finally pressing it as lightly as a leaf hits the ground in autumn. The sending icon flashed. It was done.

John switched off the telecast and stood. He palmed his phaser, considered it for a moment, and then tucked it into the small of his back. Sparing one last glance at the place he'd called home since the war had ended, John folded his arms and nodded. There was nothing left for him here.

He jogged down the steps and out into the street, picking a port at random. It didn't matter, really. He'd piece the puzzle together soon enough, and then he'd do the only thing that made any sense anymore. He'd find Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bonus! I have a sequel planned for this in which John is a BAMF and Sherlock has been presented to the world as Mycroft's actual brother and not a droid at all. It'll be told from various POVs and will feature appearances from Miss Adler (Sherlock's fiancé), Lestrade (John's accomplice), Moriarty (second in command at Holmes Institute and suspicious of Sherlock's claim as the company's heir), and Moran (Moriarty's henchman/lover/etc). Sounds fun, right? Don't know when I'll get to the actual writing part of that one (I've started some of it, but not much), but the planning has been interesting, haha. Until next time!


End file.
